


He Lives Underground

by SadEnergy



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Gregory, Dirt Fetish (I think?), Gore, Horror, Light Sadism, M/M, Self-Harm, Smut, Top Christophe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 20:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15781260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadEnergy/pseuds/SadEnergy
Summary: Eric Cartman dares Gregory to stay at the forbidden house at the end of Blackpool street. In there, thirteen years ago, fourteen people were murdered under someone, or something known as the Mole.Gregory has no intentions of figuring this mystery out, but the Mole wants to be found and he demands that it's Gregory who does so.





	1. Chapter One - Strange Rumors

No matter the taxi company I called, I got the same answer. No one would be willing to take me to the house that sat at the end of Blackpool street. So, I decided to walk there. Of course, when I told my friend, Wendy Testaburger, she got angry. 

“Gregory are you insane?! Don't you know that the house is practically a death trap?!”  
With a roll of my eyes, I tugged at the collar of my shirt. “It’s a dumb little legend campers tell over a fire, Wendy, nothing serious.” That was a lie. Fourteen people had died mysteriously in that house, so naturally, it was prohibited to enter. Such a rule wasn't going to stop me, as I am a man of my word. That's why, when I accepted the challenge to spend the night from Eric Cartman, I knew what I was getting myself into. 

That was seven hours ago. It took me a three hour bus ride from South Park to Sonibell, and now, I had been walking for four hours. It was a small town, much like South Park, but there was a substantial amount of alleyways. Sonibell was like a maze. Pushing my legs to move forward, I ended up in front of a coffee shop. Heh, weird to not get Tweek’s coffee for once. I thought as I swung open the door. The barista was a tall, African woman, with black Havana twists, tucked behind her pierced ears. “Welcome to Starbucks what can I get ya?” She sounded a bit tired, which I couldn't agree with more. 

“Well, I'm not quite sure, I've never been to Starbucks. I come from South Park, we don't have this coffee house there. If you don't mind, maybe you can walk me through?” Seeing as there was no line, I assumed it wouldn't be an issue.  
She shrugged. “Okay. I'm getting paid minimum wage here so it can't be worse than to help you, white boy. No offense.”  
“None taken. I'd like something to energize me, I have a long walk,” I read her name tag, “Kamaria, I like that name.”  
“You butchered the pronunciation.” I cringed at the response. “It's pronounced Kah-mah-ree-ah, not Ka-meh-ree-ah.” She smiled, picking out a large cup, “I'll get you a black coffee, extra caffeine. How about it, Mr…”  
“Gregory.”  
She scribbled down the name, and glanced at me once more. “So, what brings you into this ghost town?” She asked as she scooped out some grinded coffee beans and spilled them into the paper cup.  
I shrugged, debating whether I should mention my destination of the house or not. “I'm here on a dare. One of my friends told me I have to either lick the toilet bowl of stall number three at hour school–”  
Kamaria stopped me. “H-hol’ up. Why a toilet so specific?”  
Shivering, I continued. “It's a … gross one. The grossest we have at the school. I either lick that, or I spend a night at the house at the end of Blackpool street.”  
The sound of coffee and hot water splashing on the ground made me realize I had made a mistake. Kamaria stared at me with wide eyes, her hand still in the c shape that was previously holding the cup. “That's why you're here?! To stay at the– d’you have a death wish?!”  
I flinched. “N-no I just wanted–”  
The barista bent down to pick up the cup, just to chuck it into the bin. “Listen boy, all I can tell you is, that house ain't safe. Clearly you're hell bent on getting in there, so I won't stop you, but it's your own fault if you get your ass handed to you by the Mole.”  
“The Mole?”  
Kamaria rolled her eyes. “You're so innocent. Listen, the Mole is what killed those fourteen people. No one's seen it, hell, we don't even know if it's human. You can't protect yourself from it or anything. If it knows you're in its house, it'll kill you.”  
-x-  
The threats I had received were scary indeed. Kyle, Wendy, Token, and now Kamaria had warned me not to spend the night in this home, but I was not going to back down. The walk to the house was long, thirty minutes at least. But I made it. The house seemed to have collapsed into itself, with boarded up windows and doors. Not a single light was awake, the eerie silence accompanying it. Brick walls dotted with mold and ivy vines, through the broken pieces of glass that played a terrible role of windows. With every breeze, the house was screaming, begging to be put out of its misery. I swallowed what little saliva I had, in a pathetic attempt to wet my dry throat. This house looked like it belonged in a horror movie. One with a group of idiotic college students as the main cast. Something strange happened the minute I stepped forward. The door creaked, yet I was nowhere near it. It was as if it was trying to open from the inside, yet the wooden boards were holding it from doing so. I continued to walk forward, forcing my fear into the deepest pit of my brain. Reaching the front door, I peeked through the ebony wood, trying to make out what I could of the insides.

Dry corridors, with dust embodied into the draughty floors. Had the floors been carpeted, maybe then they'd see better days. Basic shapes of furniture, veiled by white cloth like a bride on her wedding day, was all I could see. It was too dark. Reaching into my pocket, I fished out my phone, and turned it on. Using what little light it provided, I shined it against the house’s interior. What caught my attention made the back of my neck heat up. There was a massive hole in the ground with at least a ten foot diameter. Tugging at the boards, I forced every bit of my strength to work together and pull them off. “Shit!” I managed, but only one board and it splintered my fingers. Climbing the bottom boards, I swung my legs over and dropped to the ground. “Okay. I made it. Let's find a bedroom to sleep in.” I whispered. It was a strange atmosphere, where talking any louder than a whisper would break the glass like air. 

Behind me, I felt a presence that felt unnatural, something that was not supposed to be there. I turned around, naturally, but nothing was awaiting me. I already knew that this house could not be haunted, because ghosts just don't exists. This isn't Paranormal Activity, it's a stupid dare made by an immature friend. “Pull yourself together. It was probably the wind.” That was a cliche of a sentence, but it was my way of calming my nerves. I carefully made my way around the gaping hole in the ground, and towards the staircase. With my first step, I knew that this poor piece of junk wouldn't last much longer, so I would have to make sure my trips up and down the stairs were as little as possible. The stairs were made of poor quality wood and railed with rusted metal. With every step, the distressed stairs groaned and whined, acknowledging my presence. Thankfully, I safely made it up the stairs, and was met with something much more strange than a hole in the deficient ground. 

In front of me, was a long and broken corridor. Paintings on the wall, littered with curse words. A few caught my attention. Fuck God, God is dead, and a more sad one in particular, Why did God let me live? My mouth formed an ‘o’ shape at the words scribbled in a messy handwriting. Whoever lives here really hates God. I assumed. Slowly, as I made my way through the corridor, the writings became more and more sad, angry and dark. Let me die, God you fag, God is a scared pussy and God is afraid of what he created, were merely examples of what I saw. Reaching the end, I was met with a door. It was beaten and splintered. Pressing against it, I used little to no strength to open it, and when I did, I was met with a bedroom. As happy as I should've been to have found a place to sleep, I was shocked when I read the massive words that circled the four walls. Spinning in a circle, I read the words that plagued the walls. The light hurts my eyes make it stop it's burning. I walked closer to the wall, using my fingers to trace the words, as if I was breaking them down further. “Who… are you?” I asked quietly, my brows furrowing at the question. Eventually, after having stood there for a couple of minutes, I shook off my jacket and took a seat on the edge of the bed. Glancing out of the small window that was puckered into the wall, I saw the Sun setting. As if on queue, I yawned and pulled open my limbs, stretching. Of course, like anyone else, I laid awake for a while, before I began to slowly drift, my body becoming numb.


	2. Chapter Two - Allergic to Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I wrote the French dialogue with all the French skills I have from school. If I have gotten anything wrong, please comment and I'll fix it asap! <3

What woke me up should've gave me a heart attack. When my eyes flickered open, I was met with another pair of dark grey ones, staring at me centimeters away from my face. I let out a loud yell of surprise and scrambled backwards until my back contacted the wall. “Wh—who are you?!”  
The figure in front of me was too dark to see, but he was tucked away in the corner of the room, an object of some kind, resembling a shovel in his hands. “Un intrus…” he whispered. (T/n: An Intruder…)  
With shaking hands I grabbed my phone and shined the light into his face, attempting to see who I was duelling with. Doing so, I discovered one thing. And that he was a brunette. The action caused him to squint his eyes and bring up his clenched fists to shield himself. He lunged towards me, whipping the shovel in his hands against my phone, forcing it out of my hands, and onto the ground. I yelped as the hard metal had also contacted my hand, causing a pulsing pain to pump through the veins. “Que faites vous dans ma maison?!” He yelled, his shovel held tightly in his hands. (T/N : What are you going in my house?!)  
French. He was speaking French. I mustered up the most French I could and sputtered out a sentence. “J-je… uh, je ne pas te blesser, s'il vous plaît, je–” (I… uh, I'm not going to hurt you, please, I–)  
“Tais-toi, fils de pute!” He shouted, stepping closer. “Que faites vous dans ma maison, tu salope?!” (T/N: Shut up, son of a bitch! // What are you doing in my house, you bitch?!)  
I couldn't think in French anymore. The pulsing pain had become worse and my head was hurting from the sudden jolt of which I awoke. “T-tu parles anglais?” (T/N: D-do you speak English?)  
He held his fighting stance, but eyed me in a less of a threatening way. “Oui, I speak ze anglais. Who are you and what are you doing in ma maison?” He growled.  
I loosened my shoulders. “M-my name is Gregory, look, I didn't mean to–”  
“What are doing in zis house?!” He yelled, in which I backed up further against the wall.  
“N-nothing! I swear I didn't mean to cause any trouble!” I was practically begging him at this point, because with that shovel, he could easily kill me.  
“So why were you sleeping on ma lit?!” he growled, taking one more step closer to me. (T/N: ma lit ; my bed)  
“I was… okay listen to me, and I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to hit me with that,” I pointed at the shovel. “I came here on a dare, because thirteen years ago, multiple people–”  
“Were killed by ze Mole. Oui, I know ze story.”  
I took in a breath. “Right, I had no idea someone would be living in here.” I stuttered, moving forward to try and make myself seem less of a threat. Needless to say, it was a mistake, because the French brunette hardened his grip on the shovel, stepping back. “I never caught your… your name.”  
He glared at me, as if I had just offended his ancestors. “Je… je m’appelle… Christophe.” He quietly muttered after a few seconds. (T/N: my… my name is Christophe.) I nodded, and swallowed the ball that had formed in my throat.  
“Okay, Christophe, I don't want to cause any trouble. If you want, I can leave, because I didn't know anyone would be living in here.” I clarified, trying to stand, but Christophe was still panicked, holding his shovel towards me, with rage in his dark eyes.  
“You get up and I will keel you!” He yelled. He calmed down somewhat when I took my seat again. “Gregory. What an English name.” He mumbled, staring at me.  
Has this guy never seen an English person in his life, living in America?! I wondered, angrily. I held my hands up and looked at him in the eyes, making sure my expression was soft and warm. “Christophe, I'll leave if you want, I promise.”  
The brunette shook his head. “No use. You have seen me, no doubt you will tell of me to your amis and they will come back.” He whispered. “Then I will be found. I cannot have that.”  
“L-look, I won't tell–”  
“Tais-toi! Silencieux!” (T/N: Shut up! Silent!) He yelled, but this time he didn't shove the shovel into my face in a threat to hurt me, so I had made some progress. I assumed he needed some time to think, so I stayed quiet. The sound of his combat boots tapping the wooden floor echoed, frustration imbedded into it. I glanced up and down his body, trying to get as much detail as I could in the dark. He had on baggy pants, but I couldn't tell if they had a pattern on them or not. Synonymous with that, his shirt was tightly gripping onto his torso. I could make out a line of muscle, nothing too big, but Christophe was definitely toned. A long piece of thick rope looped about four times over and under his shoulder, and a strap (which I assumed was used to hold the shovel) was bound against his chest. I moved my eyes upwards, but that's where the show ended. It was too dark to see anything else. “Chris... Christophe?” I whispered, genuinely scared to say it much louder.  
He glared at me, but didn't say anything. When I stayed silent, he spoke up. “Que?!” he asked, annoyed. (T/N: What?!)  
I flinched, but started talking, trying to keep my voice as flat and as confident as I could. Pointing at the nearest wall, I began. “These writings. Did you do them?” I had no idea if this question would be my last words, but the gut feeling I had was clawing at me to ask.  
He tensed up. “Oui, I wrote zem.”  
I nodded, making no eye contact. A small light from the window pierced my eye. The Sun was coming up. Morning already? How long did this take? I looked at Christophe, who was facing away from the window. When the light illuminated the ground, casting Christophe's shadow, he noticed the sunrise. “Sheet!” His reaction was anything but normal, because he started to act as though he was a vampire, allergic to the light. He turned around to face the window but as he did, he flinched and closed his eyes, stomping backwards and towards the door.  
“W-wait!” I called out, getting up quickly, determined to chase after him. But before I could even get to the door, a crunching sound under my shoes caught my attention. I looked down, to be met with clumps of dirt, gravel and even mud, trailing from the doorway to the bed like a dragged body. I paid little attention to it and continued to run after him, but when I got to the stairs, I witnessed the oddest sight.  
Christophe had booked it down the rusty stairwell, and with a swift jump, his body succumbed to the darkness of the massive hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :3


	3. Chapter Three - A Melancholy Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory may have made a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, on the French note. I'm not a native French speaker, and I'm learning French via school. If you notice any mistakes in the French dialogue, please comment for me to fix it <3

I was too shocked to move. Minutes passed, and eventually, I ran towards the hole, carefully going down the stairs. “Christophe! Are you okay?!” I assumed that he had fallen, but how could one not see such a massive sinkhole in your own home? Once I had made it to the hole, I looked down. It was pitch black. So black it felt heavy, taking all three stages of matter at the same time. Solid, liquid, gas. I went to grab my phone, but it wasn't on me, since Christophe had slapped it out of my hand, I never retrieved it. When I received no answer, I decided that I had had enough. Standing up, I walked around the hole and towards the door, but before I could leave, I felt my stomach pit. What if Christophe fell and hurt himself? What if he couldn't move because he had broken a bone? All these thoughts were racing through my mind as if on fast forward. I sighed and turned back, walking to the opening. “Christophe?! Don't worry, I'll get you out!” I called, making my way around the house. There must be something in this house to help me get him out. Through the maze of furniture and dust, I managed to find a large chest that was luckily unlocked. Opening it, I saw something that made my heart sink into sadness. Three videotapes, and multiple children's toys. I randomly picked out a wooden horse, that had the name Christophe etched into it in a messy handwriting. I placed it back and examined the tapes, reading the titles.  
Joyeux neuvième anniversaire!  
Joyeux anniversaire de mariage ♡  
L'enterrement de Madame et Monsieur DeLorne et ton fils.  
I could recognize a few things. The first tape was of someone's ninth birthday, the second one a marriage anniversary tape. I couldn't figure out what the third one said, so I turned to my phone. Pressing seven on speed dial, the phone began to ring, static polluting my ears. “Hello? Wendy? Listen, you speak French right?”  
From the other line, I could barely make out what she was saying. “What… French… where...you?”  
“Don't ask questions, just answer me this. What does L'enterrement mean?” I asked, grasping at straws for an answer.  
Wendy went quiet. “F...n...ral.” She spoke through the static. A funeral. I read the tape again.  
“The funeral of Mr and Mrs DeLorne and their son.” I said aloud, and when Wendy asked me to speak up, I simply hung up. “If the previous owners died, so why is Christophe living here?” Confusion needled my brain. I decided that watching these tapes was the best plan. Standing back up, I made my way around the house, hoping to find a working TV.  
Best wishes to my luck, because I found one that was plugged in. It wasn't modern, but it worked. I pushed in the first tape, the sound of static echoing in my head. My heart stopped when the tape began. 

“Dire salut, Christophe!” A tall, brunette woman was filming a young (I assume) Christophe, play with toys, that all resembled the ones in the box. “C'est son anniversaire aujourd'hui, qu’il a neuf ans.” She exclaimed, turning the camera to a well dressed man that was seated on the couch, reading a book, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Tu peux dire quelque chose sur Christophe?” She asked.  
The man looked up and smiled. “Oui, hm… Bonjour, Christophe, je ton père, et tu a neuf ans! Très bien!”

I fast forwarded the video, since I understood nothing of it. At the end was where I stopped, because a date had appeared. 18/03/2004. So if Christophe was turning nine in 2004, that means he is 23. Makes sense, but finding his age was not my goal, so I moved on to the third tape, skipping the second. The movie began with more static. It then panned to three graves, two of the same size and one much smaller. On the smallest grave was written “Christophe DeLorne, 1995–2004”. In the background, a man dressed as a priest was speaking with a flat tone, while many people that were crowded over the graves were weeping. “Nous sincères condoleances. Vous êtes dans nous pensées ainsi que dans mon coeur.” I still had no idea what they were saying so I ejected the tape.  
All that was running through my head was how Christophe was dead, there was a funeral and everything. So how did I see him? Was he really dead? At age nine? So young. The thought of a nine year old body buried under six feet of gravel made my stomach turn. I stood up, making my way towards the stairs. With another careful trip up the staircase and to the bedroom, I was faced with my phone on the ground, the screen shattered from the impact of the shovel. “Damn.” I whispered examining the black mirror. Thankfully, it still worked, and now, with it in my hand, I made haste to the hole.  
Upon arrival, I noticed that through the wooden boards that I had broken into, sunlight was leaking in, illuminating the sad environment. The furniture that was covered, the broken tables and chairs, it was all visible under a thick layer of grey dust. Turning my attention back to the hole, I looked inside, this time with my phone as a flashlight.  
What I saw was not what I was expecting. I had assumed that the hole was like any other sinkhole, deep and neverending. However, the hole seemed to be a dirt tunnel. It had an inverted slope as a wall, and it continued into the dark. I swallowed, still not sure if Christophe had intentionally gone inside, or if he had fallen. Growing up, I was taught to assume the worst and help as much as I could, so, with strong caution and fear picking my spine, I sat at the edge of the opening, my legs dangling. With a deep breath, I jumped in, hoping to anything Holy that I wouldn't hurt myself doing so.  
Thankfully, the hole was shallower than expected, and I landed on my behind. The smell of dirt, herbs, along with something much more disgusting filled my throat and lungs. Pulling my shirt to cover my nostrils, I coughed and slowly stood up. Shining my phone in front of me, I saw a trail that continued into the tunnel. I walked for a few minutes before I heard a clanking sound echo throughout the tunnel. It sounded like–  
“A shovel! Christophe! Are you okay? I'm here to–” I stopped mid sentence when I saw a dark figure ahead of me. I used my phone's shattered screen to illuminate my trail. As soon as the light landed on the figure, he whipped around, his eyes squinted. “Arrête de me suivre!” He shouted.  
“Chris–” My words were cut short when a strike of hard metal contacted my face head on, and instantly, like a light switch being turned off, my vision became one with the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and your support :3


	4. Chapter Four - Terror Wrapped in Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned. This chapter contains a somewhat sexual scene. 
> 
> Nothing explicit, so it's not too bad. 
> 
> Just a heads up.
> 
> Enjoy <3

The last thing I remember was having my nose smashed in with a hard metal object. Something flat, because it had hit my entire face. And now, it felt as though my head was slowly breaking. Pulsing with pain and ready to implode. I didn't dare open my eyes. I had tried three times already, but all that would happen was the pain's ascend. And in the three times I had attempted to open my eyes, all I would see was the dark. I did know something. That I was still in the tunnel, due to the smell of dirt flooding my nostrils. Another thing I had figured out, was that wherever I was in this God forsaken tunnel, I was moving, with my arms above me, being pulled along. I didn't know how, but I knew that it was slow, and with every drag of my limp body, I would stop, and the loop would go on and on. “...” my arm brushed against a root or a twig of some sort. With a desperate attempt to stop, I grabbed onto the root with all of my might, and thankfully, I stopped. For a brief few seconds of course, my victory was short lived. Above me, where my feet were hoisted upwards, I heard a loud huff of an exhale. 

“Merde. Que…” was all I heard before my legs were dropped and my heels fell to the dirt with a soft thump. I heard the crunch of dirt drawing closer and closer. Fast like a flash of lighting, a heavy weight was dropped onto my abdomen. This caused a sharp exhale of pain that was forced out of me to be heard, echoing in the endless tunnel. “Hé. Tu es réveillé?” While the voice felt as though it was coming from a distance, I knew who it was. Christophe's voice was angry, frustrated. I second that emotion. I didn't understand what he had said, and I desperately wanted to– no, needed to know. 

I mustered up all the energy inside me, (despite Christophe's weight pressing me further into the dirt) and spoke. “Mnh…” it wasn't speaking, it was a desperate moan of pain. I just hoped that Christophe would understand what I meant and got off of me, so I could speak more clearly. I slowly tried to open my eyes, but I closed them again, when I knew that there was nothing to see. “Hng…” I moaned again, hoping to get his attention, since he hadn't said anything in a while. 

“Qu'avez-vous dit?” I finally heard his voice. 

English. Please fucking speak in English, you dirt digging bastard! I had never been so frustrated with something. I heard Christophe sigh. “What did you say?” He asked.

“P...please…” Finally, a word. It wasn't much but it was all I had. I forced myself to speak, despite the act causing a lot more pain than necessary. “Chris...tophe… get…”

“Off? As you wish, Gregory.” He whispered dangerously close to my ear. As though on queue, a wave of air flooded into my abdomen as I felt my lungs expand. I let out a huge gasp, and went to sit up, but I was blocked by something. Finally, as if years had passed, I was able to open my eyes, the breath helping generously. Once my eyes were adjusted to the darkness, I felt my ears heat up. 

Christophe was still on top of me, just sitting in an M position, his body hovering over mine. I was blocked by his lower half, his face staring me down. “Oui? What is ze matter?” He asked, the cigarette half lit in between his teeth muffling his words. 

“M-my head…”

“Hurts? Oui, I know.” he let out a scoff, as if it was funny. He picked at his nail, pulling out a clump of dirt from underneath. He glanced at me once more, and took the cigarette between his dirty fingers, blowing out the smoke. He let out a soft breath when he heard me hack in the smell of nicotine. He leaned closer. “You know what I like?” He paused, and when I didn't reply, he dug his free hand into the dirt, taking out a fist full. “La terre. Or, as you Englishmen call it, ze dirt.” He emptied his hand onto my face, the dirt rolling along my cheeks and mouth. 

I coughed out, spitting out the bits that had gotten into my mouth. “Wh–what?!” 

He didn't answer but instead, he pressed his cigarette into the ground, the hiss of it releasing the last bit of smoke available. Christophe traced my abdomen with his finger, humming a soft tune. He pinched the bottom of my shirt, and pulled it up. Fear began to rise. “You have very pale skeen.” He whispered, his body still inches over me. The Frenchman burrowed out more dirt and spilled it onto my stomach. The sensation felt strange, but at the same time, it felt natural. Christophe spread the dirt further up to my chest, the tune ongoing without a stop in sight. 

“Christophe–”

“Tais-toi.” He demanded, grabbing onto my arms. With a swift move, he pulled my shirt upwards, stripping me, along with whatever dignity I had. Christophe continued to spread the soil onto my skin, seemingly pleased. “J'ai fini.” He whispered, taking a seat onto my hip bones. “C'est beau, non?” 

I continued to stare at him in the confusion that traced through my brain. 

Slowly, Christophe inched closer, but not to my face. In the darkness of the tunnel, I felt something slick and wet slap against my stomach. Christophe **licked** me. “H-hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?!” I protested, sitting up, some of the loose dirt falling off. 

“S'arrête!” He growled, shoving me back onto the ground. 

The contact shouldn't have hurt, but in my current state, my body was too frail to do anything. The shovel to the face wasn't the only injury I had took. No way I would be this vulnerable after a mellow hit like that. Something else had happened, but I had no idea what. 

Christophe now had my hands pinned above me, as he bent down once more. I felt the same wet trail, it picked up the dirt clean. He retracted his tongue, licking his lips for any residue dirt. The brunette closed his eyes, a heavy sigh of pleasure leaving him. It was like watching an addict get his fix. Panic rushed through my veins as he continued to cup more dirt onto my torso and lick it off. The crunch of the dirt under his teeth would echo next to my ragged and feared breath. “Délicieux.” He chirped quietly, a menacing smile on his lips. “I always have had zis problem. Growing up, mon mère et père would yell at me. 'Christophe, do not eat ze dirt! It's bad for you!’ but I would never listen. I usually don't eat ze dirt off of a human, but you are very different.” He slowly reached into his back pocket and retrieved a roll of brown packaging tape. He pressed it against his mouth and pulled at it, continuing until he ripped off a rather long piece. With one corner still in his mouth, Christophe used his free hand to grab the other end, and brought the tape to my wrists. Taping them together so tight that my blood circulation was sure to be cut, he let go, finishing with a satisfied sigh. This time with both hands, he helped himself stand, and grabbed onto my legs.

Okay. This guy was insane. “L-let me go!” I yelled as he started to walk forward. He didn't even bother to knock me out this time, and that scared me. But at the same time, it gave me a chance to try and get out of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice anything wrong with the French, please comment and I will fix it :3


	5. Chapter Five - Finally Have Had Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

I desperately tried to scrape at any means of escape, but nothing worked. My hands had become a tint of blue and purple, the tips of my fingers completely numb. I screamed at him multiple times, begging him to let me go, but nothing seemed to work. I was doomed and there wasn't a thing I could do stop it. Unless I could get him to stop, even for a moment, I could– wait. That's it! 

“Christophe, please, listen to me okay?” 

He didn't reply, and continued to huff out labored breaths as he dragged me. 

“You… you and your parents died. So how am I seeing you all grown up?” He stopped. It worked! 

Christophe turned his head. “How did you know? You… you watched the tapes?” He smirked. “I am not dead, you idiot. Everyone thought zat I had died with my parents, but I escaped.” He stopped talking and continued his trail.

Grasping at straws, I stuttered to speak again. “Wh– how can that be? What happened to your parents?” I should have never asked that. Because in a swift move, Christophe stomped his boot into my stomach. I let out a yelp of pain and forced my taped hands to grip onto my stomach as I moaned. 

“Never ask me zat again, or I will end you right here.”

That was it. His weakness, or point of connection was his past. If I could get to him, I might be able to escape alive. “I just wanted to help. Y-you seemed so… so happy in your ninth birthday. Wh-what happened?” I spoke through gritted teeth. 

The Frenchman furrowed his brows. “My ninth… right. Ze day of ze fire.” he whispered, but shook his head quickly, glaring. “It is none of your business what has happened to me in my past.”

I panicked. If I could get him to open up to me, maybe I could get out of this situation. He mentioned a fire, and suddenly, the burnt stench of the house began to make sense. “Fire? There was a fire in your home, on your ninth birthday? Did it… did it kill your mother and father?”

Christophe spun around, digging his foot into the side of my body. “Tais-toi! Tu… connard!” He yelled, continuously kicking. 

It felt like my stomach had turned inside out. Blood was gushing from my esophagus, staining my lips. It felt so painful beyond my limits. I couldn't even beg him to stop, because as soon as I would begin to talk, Christophe would just disfigure me further. 

“That faggot of a God, he was too scared to take me with him! He is terrified of what he has created! He took my mother and father, but left me behind! A nine year old, in the pits of a fire that  **_he_ ** started! Faggot! Bitch! Fucker! Cunt! Branleur! Salope!” He repeated the curses that would string together while kicking me to the point I was surely ready to blackout. 

It felt like my body was ready to shut down. But, he had stopped. With sacred caution, I crept open my eyes. He was on the ground, dirt staining his face–no, it wasn't dirt, it was tears. He was crying. 

I couldn't move, pain was burning within every fiber of me. But, I forced myself to speak. “Ch-Christophe, listen. What God did to you, is unforgivable, I agree. B-but how did you live even though–”

“I dug.” 

I stayed quiet in confusion. “D-dug?”

Christophe stood up. He seemed distressed. “Enough. Stop asking questions!” he spat at my face, the saliva trickling along my cheek. He continued to grumble in French as he dragged me. 

Nothing was working. He was so deep in his anger that reaching him seemed unachievable. I let out small grunts every time my head bounced against the gravel. This pattern went on for a while before he stopped again. When I looked up, I saw a dead end. “Christophe?” 

“Tais-toi.” He whispered, letting my legs drop to the ground. Christophe reached for the shovel that was strapped to his back and detached it, spinning it in his hand before sticking it into the dirt. He began to dig through, continuing the tunnel. 

This was my chance. I could get up and start running, and lose him in the tunnel. I glanced at him and something inside me sank.  _ Christophe is so sad _ . I let out a sigh and continued to think. I was wasting my time, and soon I was going to join the other fourteen people that were somewhere here. I forced myself to sit up, looking at him. “I'm sorry.” 

He stopped digging, the shovel was still midway in the dirt. Without turning, he spoke. “What for?” 

“I invaded your home without knowing the consequences.” My only means of escape were to make him let me go. Running in a tunnel  _ he  _ dug,  _ he  _ mapped and he knew like the back of his hand, was flat out stupid. He could chase me down in seconds, if not take a shortcut. “Look, I know how hard it must've been to lose your parents, and not be allowed to go with them. God really stabbed you in the back.” I knew at this point how much Christophe hated God, so by insulting him, I might've been able to buy some time. “Let me help you, okay?” 

He glanced at me, and only for a brief moment, a flash of emotion sparked in his brown eyes. But, as quick as it came, it left. “You don’t even know what you are talking about.”

I was getting frustrated, so I sat up. Christophe immediately spun around and approached me, his shovel in hand, ready to swing. “Please, let me help.” I begged, my voice shaky. 

He did not lower the shovel, and instead, clicked his tongue. “Tch. You cannot help me.” He whispered, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. 

 

This was my chance! Ignoring every ounce of numbing pain in my body, I stood up and pounced towards him, ready for a fight for my life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice anything wrong with the French, please comment and I will fix it :3


End file.
